It’s the TSA’s fault. I was just rolling through airport security, putting my carry-on and shoes in the plastic bins and getting ready to go through the scanner, when this TSA agent tapped me roughly on the shoulder and said, “Sir, I’m gonna have to have you take off your coat.”
Well that’s a problem, Fred. I’d really rather keep it on. “You sure?” I asked him.
TSA didn’t like that. He warned me not to be disrespectful and called a few of his buddies over. “Sir, you either take off that trenchcoat or we’ll have to take it off for you. Those are the rules.”
So I took it off. I didn’t want to, but that’s what I did, even though my trenchcoat was my only layer, the ONLY thing I had. The TSA made me take my shoes off earlier, so there I was, stripped butt-naked hands out, dick hanging in front of security with nothing but my purple knitted socks.
What, baby, you don’t walk around naked under a nice coat sometimes? It’s clothing, ain’t it? I don’t see any instructions on how I *have* to wear my coat. Sometimes you don’t need all the other fluff.
TSA didn’t like that, either. Rules is rules, baby.